About Me

With one foot firmly planted on the American west coast and the other in the Rocky Mountains, M.R. Hyde celebrates and explores the known and spiritual world through writing on themes of mercy, justice, humility and joy. Her religious writing has been praised for its accessibility and her fiction for its unusual, original, humorous and absorbing nature. M.R. Hyde has written for religious purposes for nearly three decades and writes fiction for the sheer joy of words. M.R. Hyde earned a Master of Arts in Theology from Fuller Theological Seminary and a Bachelor of Arts in Visual Arts from Point Loma Nazarene University.

Quotations on Literature

To the Christian his own temperament and experience, as mere fact, and as merely his, are of no value or importance whatsoever: he will deal with them, if at all, only because they are the medium through which, or the position from which, something universally profitable appeared to him.

He will do it if it happens to be the thing he can do best . . . It is to him an argument not of strength but of weakness that he should respond fully to the vision only 'in his own way'. And always, of every idea and of every method he will ask not 'Is it mine?', but 'Is it good?'

He has no objection to the comedies that merely amuse and tales that merely refresh; for he thinks like Thomas Aquinas . . . We can play as we can eat, to the glory of God.

Reading List

The Call of the Wild by Jack LondonThe Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan DoyleRogue Lawyer by John GrishamThe Pilot by James Fenimore CooperSomething New by P.G. WodehouseNo Name by Wilkie CollinsThe Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonaldThe Life of St. Macrina by St. Gregory of NyssaThe Wife and Other Stories by Anton Pavlovich ChekhovThe Simarillion by J.R.R. TolkienPersusion by Jane AustinArmadale by Wilkie CollinsThe Woman in White by Wilkie CollinsIvanhoe by Sir Walter ScottThe Moonstone by Wilkie CollinsQuiet: The Power of Introverts In a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan CainThere and Back by George MacDonald Sycamore Row by GrishamThe Children of Oden: The Book of Northern Myths by Padraic Colum and Willy PaganyRobinson Crusoe by Daniel DefoeThe Racketeer by John GrishamThe Hobbit by J.R.R. TolkienThe Strange and Thrilling Adventures of James Charles Fogarty by Tim ChristianPhantastes, a Faerie Romance for Men and Women by George MacDonaldTill We Have Faces by C.S. LewisTreasure Island by Robert Louis StevensonThe Litigators by John GrishamLove Among the Chickens: A Story of the Haps and Mishaps on an English Chicken Farm by P.G. WodehouseThe Year of Living Biblically by A.J. JacobsThe Professor's House by Willa CatherShadows on the Rock by Willa CatherThe Great Divorce by C.S. LewisBilly Bud by Herman MelvilleThe Confession byJohn GrishamThe Folk of the Fringe by Orson Scott CardRed Badge of Courage by Stephen CraneOne of Ours by Willa CatherThe Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History by Robert M. Edsel

Saturday, December 22, 2012

The
announcement came in the newsletter from the apartment manager. It was
highlighted at the top, surrounded by images of holly leaves and berries. Two
hundred dollars off of rent for the tenant who had the prettiest Christmas
window. "They" would be walking around the property on the night of
December 21st to judge.

Immediately
after reading the announcement, Gladys’ mind went a-whirring.If she focused all of her attention on that
front window she could win! Yes, the tree would be in its usual spot as an
annual beacon of joy just as every year.She so wanted the world to know the joy that she felt.Every year she hoped that it would spread
some cheer. But, this year it could mean so much more. It could bring some
welcome financial relief. The budget was still fixed and tight. But with her
decorating acumen she might win this Christmas competition. A growing sense of
competition assured her that she would!

That
night Gladys pulled out all of her Christmas decorations. She unpacked them fiercely,
tossing old paper and plastic behind her. She plunked down every decoration on
the kitchen table, the taller ones tipping this way and that against the table
legs and the walls. Gladys' activity was so intense that her old cat decided to
back away slowly to find a nice quiet and dark corner in the closet to keep out
of the fray.

After
some time Gladys hustled off to her desk to pick up a pencil with a good eraser
and that stiff, old pad of yellow paper. Hurrying back to the table, she pulled
out a chair and sat down to begin charting her course. The pencil flew here and
there about the paper. With quick-fire frustration she would erase all ill-conceived
designs and then redraw them. After about an hour or so of heavy concentration,
she leaned back and held up her tablet. There it was! The winning window!

The
next hours and days were full of concerted effort, with Gladys occasionally
having to stop to wipe her brow. Her old cat would carefully weave between the
boxes and the papers on the floor—the gauntlet through which it must pass to
gain the water and food bowls in the kitchen.The house was a tumble with Christmas objects, first placed here, then
there, then there. Finally, in triumph, not only was Gladys’ apartment window finished
perfectly with Christmas delights, but also the remainder of her humble abode.
There was just one more thing left to do. She must view the window from the
vantage point of the judges—the unknown judges of the Christmas competition.

That
morning it had begun to snow. Soft, big, lazy snowflakes had carefully and
quietly began to bury the trampled, brown grass. The snowflake’s work had been
steady and sure. A deep and thick blanket of brilliant white snow now hid the
ugly late autumn and early winter gray. Gladys peeked out of her bedroom window
to see how warmly she needed to dress. The wind started to pick up handfuls of
snow and toss it as a baker does the flour just before kneading the dough.Gladys pulled on her heaviest coat and
tightened a wool scarf around her neck. With her sweater underneath, her arms
pitched out to the sides a bit, quite like a penguin. She realized her first
winter's mistake very soon when she attempted to lean over and put on her
boots. Rather than un-layer her layers, she insisted on huffing and puffing and
bending and twisting in unusual ways to secure the boots to her feet. By the
time she got this accomplished, she was sweating mightily inside of her coat
and her hair was plastered to her head under the sturdy hood. She could feel
the moisture matt the wool scarf to her neck. Undaunted by the prospect of the
wind forcing her into a seasonal cold because of this, Gladys launched out the
door, through the hallway and down the front steps into nature's raw winter.
Almost running out into the snow, a big smile broadened her face and she could
feel her skin tingle from the freezing air. She was swept back to her childhood
when they would race out of the house coatless and anxious to see their simple
tree decorations shining through the window. The whole family would stand
together and with chattering teeth sing "Oh, Christmas Tree!" They
would sing only as long as they could feel their feet. Then they would race
back in for hot cocoa and putting away the empty decorations boxes.

Gladys
was thrilled to see her window. It was glorious! The lights were hung
perfectly. The tree radiated its small splendor. The handmade paper snowflakes
danced across the panes of glass as if they had just fallen from heaven. For a
moment she could hear her parents and siblings softly singing, “Oh, Christmas tree!
Oh, Christmas tree! ..." But then the wind slammed against her with the
chilly biting reminder that she was still alone.

As she fought to keep her balance, the wind belayed
its force for a moment. Gladys saw more lights in her peripheral vision. She
took several steps back and looked at one window and then the next. Every one
of her neighbors had worked as hard as she to decorate their windows. Three
stories high and twelve rows across Christmas lights beamed out. Flashing wreathes,
tiny and big trees, reindeer noses, blinking Santa faces all sent their lights
reflecting onto the freshly fallen snow.

In
a moment of despair, Gladys realized she probably would not win the Christmas window
competition. Her hope for some financial relief was vanquished. But then she
realized that all of her neighbors probably needed the same relief. She knew
that Frank’s children never came to see him or help him. She knew that the
young couple on the second floor with the new baby had barely enough furniture.
She remembered the veteran who lived in 3C was bound by his terrible nightmares
and unable to work. She thought of the three teenagers sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder
in one of their two bedrooms while their mother slept heavily in the other
after her second shift each night. Gladys felt a wave of shame wash over
her.She really did not need to win. She
had just enough. She looked carefully at each window, wondering who needed
relief the most and hoping that they would win.

"Evenin’
Gladys." A horse, old voice broke the silence.

"Well,
hello Frank!" Gladys was glad to see her neighbor.

"Sure
is pretty, isn't it?" Gladys could see the delight in Frank's eyes.
"I've never seen it all lit up like that!”

"It
sure is pretty, Frank. Indeed it is." The two turned again to the wall of
lights, smiling and comforted by each other's presence.

Frank
cleared his throat and then began to sing quietly. It only took Gladys a bar of
notes to recognize the tune and then she began to sing with him.

Oh, Christmas tree!

Oh, Christmas tree!

How lovely are they branches…

They
finished the song with a sense of respectful and hushed joy. Frank took
Gladys's arm and held it in a frail way as they walked back into the apartment
building. She knew he was not strong enough to hold her up, so she feigned the
need for support to honor his effort.

"Good
night, Gladys and Merry Christmas!" Frank's smile was so sweet and
wonderful.

Gladys
gave Frank a quick kiss on his wrinkled, old cheek. "Merry Christmas to
you as well, Frank. Merry, Merry Christmas."

Gladys
watched as Frank hobbled back to his door down the hall. He turned and waved
before he closed the door behind him. Gladys entered her own apartment and
surveyed the mess. Her cat, sensing the change in mood, sidled up to her and
leaned heavily against her leg. "Well, dear," she said as she picked
up her old cat."I guess we'd
better clean up this mess." The two stared comfortably at the mess for
some time. Setting down the cat, then dismantling her winter garb and pulling
off her boots, Gladys thought that this was a very good start of one of the
best Christmas seasons in quite some time.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

I was unable to read at last night's Colorado Springs Writers Reading Series, although I was delighted to hear the other readers there. So, I decided to post the selection I had intended to read.

I have been working for some time on a story about Pauley, a man as tall as a tree. When we encounter Pauley in this selection he has come through a terrible ship wreck and has been washed ashore near a tribe of people living near that seashore. They bring him back to health and then he feels the need to return home.

I am finding that in writing this novel I have a desire to express color the way that Willa Cather did, particularly in Death Comes for the Archbishop. I am a visual artist so color fills my mind, but I rarely try to express in words the sensation of color. So my first attempt is to work at this in a more deliberate way through Pauley's story. My apologies to all the color-blind readers whose attention may be lost in such renderings.

Selection from Saint Pauley

The
children were carefully lined up with their faces washed. The sad women stood
behind them with their hands on the children's shoulders. The men circled
around Pauley. A deep hum emanated from their throats, undulating in peculiar
and communal rhythms. Suddenly as one, the entire tribe took a step to the
left, their shoulders swaying from the movement. The chief clicked his tongue
rapidly and the tribe took two steps again to the left. The chief signaled again
and they took three steps to the left. On the third signal one of the women
began to sing a soft song. Pauley could not understand the words for they were
in an ancient tongue. Voice by voice tribe members added to their song and it
swelled gently. He was mesmerized. The
chief broke the circle and stepped in front of the man next to him. Each tribe
member followed the other as the chief circled ever closer to Pauley as he stepped around
the inside of the human circle. It was not long that a human spiral sang and swayed
quietly around him.

Pauley
was overcome with peace and a profound sense of belonging. The circle of song
gently curled more tightly around him. Pauley closed his eyes absorbing the
vibration of voices and movement. He opened his eyes again only when he felt a
brush on his arm. His eyes fluttered open to a pale, violet light touching
everyone from above. He looked into the faces of those circled around him and
their eyes were alive with joy. Their teeth flashed in brilliant smiles. All
sorrow was gone. The chief pointed to the sky and Pauley lifted his head. A thousand
shining angel wings circled above their heads, flashing in brilliance and
beauty. The opalescent orchid, sky magenta, indigo violet and purple were laced
with silver threads of light. Polly blinked twice, closed his eyes could feel
the brush of wings against his face. When he opened his eyes again all was
changed back to its earthly nature. The tribe, however, still had joy on their faces.
The chief clicked his tongue three times. The whole tribe took a breath as if
one and whispered a corporate and heartfelt word into the air. Pauley leaned over and asked the chief
in a low whisper, "What does that mean?"

"It
means ‘Thank you’,” whispered the chief. Pauley's jaw hung open. The tribe
started to disperse, some moving back toward their huts, others walking out onto
the sand, some stood where they were. The children clung to the women, afraid and overwhelmed by the new wonder they had just experienced.

The
chief tapped Pauley on the arm. "They come to us when we need them the
most."

Pauley
experienced a new and strange resolve, a resolve born of joy and shot through
with courage. He looked down at the chief. "I will go now. But you will
see me again."

"Yes,
our Pauley. We hope to see you again."

"No,
chief, I will see you again."

Pauley
picked up his bag, which had been carefully prepared by the tribe, swung it on
to his shoulder and launched out through the vegetation toward home.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Recently my parents lost their retirement home in the Little Bear fire in New Mexico. Over 200 hundred homes were lost in a beautiful mountain area. While I had seen the evidence of other fires and watched the images on television, it was not until I saw pictures of the decimated home I had helped to paint and in which many happy memories had been created that I begin to come to terms with the nature of such a fire. This kind of loss is so different than the losses created by greed or violence--such as a stolen car or a break-in. It is wholly different in nature and we are completely subject to it. Here are my thoughts in relation to this event.

What the Fire Said

You won’t need those keys any longer.

The view is less spectacular now.

I can eat nearly anything.

Watch how I bend these beams.

I don’t want that
house; I’ll take these.

I ride with the wind—no, I create the wind.

I run faster through steep valleys where your trucks cannot
go.

I skip over tall mountains like running the pews.

I can reach much farther than you.

I can take what is precious to you—and you will never get it
back.

I can leave you as quickly as I came, with ash as my
footprints.

You will leave
this area.

I can extend myself in unfathomable ways—up, down, under,
over and through.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

We had a wonderful, sad, happy send-off to Abby E. Murray last night at the Colorado Springs Writers Reading Series. We wished her the best and gave her a standing ovation as a small token of our love and appreciation for her work in supporting and encouraging writers in our community. I would not want you to miss her new publication, Quick Draw: Poems from a Soldier’s Wife, so please order your copy today from Finishing Line Press.

On another CSWRS note: I recently finished reading Tim Christian's delightful tale The Strange and Thrilling Adventures of James Charles Fogarty. Tim is a favorite reader at CSWRS primarily because his writing is just so good. This tale is reminiscent of Mark Twain in its humor and use of language, with a good measure of strangely accessible science fiction. Just a good, fun read. Get it now at Lulu.com.

Last night I read my short story that was born out of a second wave of invasive Spring moths. I noticed something odd about the birds during these two invasions. They had an alarming reprieve of their usual cautiousness. This story is a reworking of my own irritation regarding moths to the jubilant abandonment of the birds regarding moths.

Robin

Rudy
arrived in the spring. This was his fourth spring. He felt a little weary and
worn and longed for a good rest. He was glad it was near sunset. Tomorrow, yes
tomorrow would be a good day -- he just knew it. He
sidled into a giant Ponderosa pine, hoping he would not take up another's
space. He would settle in more tomorrow, but for now he just needed to rest.

"Oh,
excuse me!" A quiet exclamation touched him as an equally weary and new
neighbor shuffled in next to him.

The
two fell into a deep slumber, unaware of the other visitors stumbling weakly
onto their commandeered perches. Everyone made room.

Rudy
woke to a morning ruckus. Birds everywhere were scrambling over each other,
dodging short and long talons, and some were very nearly screaming. Rudy
twitched his head to knock the sleep out and then heard the word -- the word
that could make any traveler lose his ever loving mind – moths! A small sparrow
dashed in among the branches. "Moths! Great gobs of moths!" There was
a rather hysterical look in its eye.

Rudy
had been raised right. He scuttled as quickly as he could to the end of the
limb, trying desperately not to be rude or harm anyone. But the raging hunger
he felt nearly drove him to distraction. He could hear his mother's sweet
voice. "Take your time, Rudy. There's always enough for everyone." He
closed his eyes briefly and took a deep, cleansing breaths.

"Ruthy!"
A muffled and urgent voice compelled him to open his eyes."You gotha geth outh there!" Bud
was trying to talk with the tattered edge of a moth wing sticking out of his
beak. He clapped his beak several more times and then swallowed hard.

"Rudy,
I've never seen anything like it!" Tears were in Bud's eyes, tears of
absolute joy.

With
as much reserve as he could muster, Rudy spoke carefully to his friend.
"Okay, okay. I'm coming." But as calm as he was on the exterior,
Rudy's heart was leaping up into his throat. Bud dashed away and a panorama of
splendor opened up before Rudy. The air felt alive with movement -- erratic,
chaotic movement. Moths covered tree trunks, windows, roofs, sidewalks and
streets. Some were fluttering madly without compasses. Some were bouncing off
of cars and buildings. Kamikaze moths careened to their deaths in mad lunacy. It
was unbelievable!

Rudy
mumbled in awe, "Mama told me about this." Then with a kind of
madness he would not soon forget, he plunged into the feast. No one cared much
of wings clipped or feet brushing backs or bodies spiraling through the air.
There were moths -- gobs and gobs of moths!

Suddenly
the long migration seemed like a distant dream. Suddenly the weariness of bone transformed
into explosive energy toward consuming as many moths as he could. Be gone his
mother's soft voice! This was a feast!

The
next few hours were lost to Rudy.Later
he could not remember the balance of that day.He felt a great discomfort about his middle. When he glanced down he
could see his distended redbreast and he groaned with put-upon shame. His
signature dip-step-step-up, had been replaced with a tip-waddle-waddle-waddle.
This should have alarmed him, except his response time was slowed by the
influence of gluttony. His mother's more urgent and alarmed voice finally came
to him again. "Beware the cats of spring!" Rudy took three lumbering
steps and then beat his wings into flight.He landed solidly on the next to the lowest branch in the nearest tree.

Rudy
woke in the middle of the night with the wind and rain and hail lashing at the
tree. He clenched his toes tighter around the branch and took a deep contented
breath. A huge grin would have spread
across his face if he could grin like the humans. He knew in the morning there
would be another ruckus and some wild-eyed sparrow would dash into the trees
screaming "Worms!"